Sound and Sense
season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill and
The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs,
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in
his winter coat he flings;
with new repaired scale;
The adder all her slough away she slings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smale;
The busy bee her honey now she
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see among these pleasant things
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs
mingles or remembers(?).
Slow, slow, fresh fount
SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:
List to the heavy part the music bears,
Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
Droop herbs, and flowers,